


But You Did

by 1Boo



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate History, American History, American Revolution, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Purple Prose, Warning for casual mentions of slavery, cause we can't pretend the founding fathers weren't unfortunate assholes, well it's still a colony at this point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Boo/pseuds/1Boo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Hamilton and Jefferson meet before the revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But You Did

The kid’s eyes are the blue-violet of almost-ripe blueberries in summer. They are so, so lost in the snowy New York street that Thomas winces. It’s incongruent, all that colour in one small, distant face, wedged between gray houses and street and clothes and sky. The boy is just wandering, navigating the thin ice under his feet as if he’s not sure if he can trust it, face thrust towards the sky. No one is with him, but he is sixteen-ish and old enough to be on his own.

It takes Thomas a minute, but he realizes the boy is staring at the snow.

Leaning back against the cushions in the parked carriage, Thomas rests his legs on the seat opposite and dreams of warmer places, of blueberries hot from the sunshine, of the humid, heavy scent of air under oaks draped in wild grape.

Up front the waiting ponies prance from the cold. Their driver is inside buying Thomas a new pair of fine leather gloves, to protect him from the drafts on the long journey South to Virginia. New York is terrible this time of year, and Thomas wants home.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Concentrates as if he could will himself away.

No one swoops in to deliver him to a mountaintop in Virginia, so Thomas lets out a breath and opens his eyes. The boy is suddenly closer than before, blue eyes like a jolt which sends Thomas’s heart pounding as if he’s afraid, or maybe exhilarated. Once, when Thomas was younger and possibly, he might admit, a little stupid, he tossed a bottle of rum into a bonfire. The whole thing exploded like Sodom and Gomorrah, like fire and brimstone, and, best of all, it burned deep, brilliant, blinding blue.

If those eyes were on him, Thomas would never be cold again. He knows it.

Distraction. The slave, Jupiter, could be back any minute with his gloves. Thomas starts a song under his breath, one the slaves hum in the fields while they scatter tobacco seeds, as if it’s a charm that can drown out the image outside the window. The boy trudges even closer, eyes staring and staring at the little excited crowds of snowflakes.

Singing isn’t like speaking, and that coupled with the anonymity of the shadowy carriage, Thomas is not shy. If the boy was to notice, Thomas is secure in the fact that, even if he could locate the correct parked carriage along the row of shop fronts, all he would see is another rich planter’s son; a southerner far, far from home. And that would be the end of it.

Thomas hadn’t bothered to reckon with the mind behind those eyes.

The boy hears him, just faintly Thomas is sure, but stops right away to peer through the thickening snow flurries. His pale hair and face blend into the bland pastels, but his eyes shine with the promise – or maybe the memory – of tropical waters and blue, blue flames.

There must be a song for that; for the warm tropics and the stink of brine and pirates hidden in jungle coves, but Thomas doesn’t know it. He comes very close to wanting that violet gaze trained on himself. So close in fact that he lifts his voice a little, widens it, lets it carry out into the freezing air where the notes are clear even when his breath is clouds of frost.

Their eyes catch and it’s like fishhooks, like rabbits in a snare. There is no looking away. Thomas is thinking of hurricanes and shipwrecks and a funeral procession through the sugarcane fields – all things which should not occur to him because he’s never lived them. Maybe he’s read them, or maybe he’s been singing them by accident for years, and waiting. The slave song snags in his chest and he goes quiet. The boy steps closer.

“That is a negro spiritual, is it not, sir?” he says, and looks like he meant to say something else, but was to curious and perplexed to remember introductions. Thomas is not in the mood for polite drivel, so he quickly goes along with it, speaking from the safety of his shadows.

“It is.”

“Forgive me, but how did a gentleman like yourself come to know a slave’s song?” the boy asks. He must have stepped forward again without either of them realizing, because suddenly he is up against the window and tantalizingly close. The steady gaze washes over Thomas, and there’s definitely some purple in that blue.

The boy has his fingers on the edge of the window and is studying as much as he can see of the stranger in the fine carriage. Thomas wonders if some of this is calculated. If the boy is one of those who are enticing in the way they know their beauty.

But no. The language and the posture are meant to be lovely, but the boy doesn’t believe that it works as well as it does.

Thomas is rolling a Bible verse around on his tongue like a good Southern boy. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them. He thinks briefly of his mother and how he used to sneak out on the Sabbath to meet some friends by the river with tobacco and rum they stole from their fathers’ houses. For they know not what they do. He wonders: if he believed, how many prayers would it take to cover this one boy? And they parted his raiment, and cast lots. The problem is, Thomas is not stupid at all, and he knows what he’s doing. He knows very, very well.

Somehow Thomas’s hand is on the latch to the carriage’s little door, trembling. He sucks in cold air which burns on the way down like the first gulp of hard cider.

“My slaves are fond of the tune,” he manages to choke out, explaining that song, that long forgotten song, in a voice that struggles to maintain any sense of aristocratic aloofness. It’s a last ditch effort not to drag the family name through more embarrassments.

The boy is undeterred. He cocks his head to one side and says, “Ah, yes, it is a whole different dialect of English, is it not? Back in – a place I once…inhabited,” he amends, “I was able to hear much of it. At one point I made a bit of a study of it.”

Almost-numb fingers flip the latch and the door swings open on its own. The boy almost jumps back. He looks up, guarded.

“Please come in,” Thomas says, “It is terribly cruel to have a conversation where one man is warm and the other is left in the cold. And I could never let alone someone who has made a study of such strange music, of all things.” Or a sixteen-year-old with blue-violet eyes like burning, who stares at snow. The first is as true as the second.

The boy hesitates for a fraction of a second, just long enough for a tiny blush to rise in his neck. If Thomas hadn’t already been staring he wouldn’t have noticed. Snow falling from his cloak and boots, the boy swings himself smoothly up into the carriage. He settles a polite distance from Thomas, but Thomas’s legs are so long that their knees bump and their thighs slide across each other. The boy swallows, but removes his patched cloak with fingers which show no signs of tremors. Not fear, then.

Thomas feels his own heart quicken, his own body heat under the haphazard clothes he threw on this morning with only a mind for warmth. He might’ve taken some sort of initiative in fashion if he’d known who would come wandering by on the streets of New York, eyes of blueberries and shark filled waters; a strange intelligence burning blue like rum poured on a fire.

“Shall I close the door?” the boy asks. Thomas can only nod. He does, drawing the curtain as well, and it is suddenly very dusky inside the carriage. They can feel the silk pillows and smell the ponies and see dark twins of each other just inches away, breathing.

Thomas couldn’t say who started first, but fingers begin to trail over cushions, then as if by accident over legs and arms. Pretend the way his hand is greedily tracing up the boy’s thigh is an accident. Even in the half-darkness Thomas can see him as his eyes adjust. Lips, still blue with cold, are parted, tongue dabbing quickly along them so that they shine wetly in the gloom.

The sight, coupled with the full force of those eyes, is enough to push him past most sanity, any worry of when Jupiter and the driver would return; even so it is the boy who acts first. He must have done this before, because he grabs Thomas’s right hand and pulls himself up into Thomas’s lap, kisses him full and hard on the mouth. Thomas chokes and hisses and kisses back hungrily, grabbing at shoulders and hair, then finally breaking away to bite at a fluttering pulse, not because he is tired of the lips, but because he needs to kiss everywhere.. If he isn’t mistaken, there is a soft moan in response.

“What shall I call you?” he gasps against the boy’s neck, because Thomas likes having a name to call out if he so wishes.

“Does it matter?” asks the body flush against his. Then, finally, after a pause, “Alexander”. It looks odd on his lips when Thomas glances down; awkward like no one has called him by that name in a while, and it is not a surname, which is strange to give to a stranger. But there is no lie on him.

Alexander, whoever he is, is not prepared for the way Thomas kisses. It’s a slow barrage of long, warm, lingering presses which are almost too gentle for Alexander’s taste, until he realizes somewhere in those drawn out embraces Thomas has pinned him to the other side of the carriage. Thomas can literally feel when he realizes the position he’s in. This is because Alexander tenses, then moans loud into Thomas’s mouth, cock twitching where it’s pressed against Thomas’s leg.

The second Thomas stops, desperate for air, Alexander is on him, shaking not with fear but with the sheer rush of desire. He’s half stiff and growing harder, pride the only thing keeping him from even suggesting aloud that he desperately wants Thomas’s hands on him. Or better yet, his hands on Thomas, around Thomas. It’s all written in those eyes, a newborn language Thomas studies greedily.

Alexander fists his hands in ginger hair which burns brightly even in their little shadowed corner. Pushing off from the wall of the carriage, he slams Thomas bodily against the cushioned wall, so hard Thomas’s head clangs and his hair is down in his eyes. Mouths together, searing each other, the tang of blood because Alexander bites. It is alive, this kiss. It is hungry and more desperate than either would admit. Their saliva trails pink but Thomas doesn’t seem to care, god he’s delirious and pinned against the wall by this skinny teenager and he’s harder than he’s been in years; he’s burning and bucking towards him.

Thomas moans at Alexander’s hands in the laces of his breeches – yes, the boy’s definitely done this before - tugging and teasing but never touching. They are both panting now and Thomas’s lip is bleeding but that is not a problem; he’s never seen something farther from a problem.

Well, Alexander knows what he’s doing, but two can play. Thomas cants his hips upward, spreads his legs lewdly, leans his neck back where sweat-damp ginger hair clings. Light from the curtained window slides across his skin. It’s supposed to be a show of begging, but Thomas finds himself really pleading, silently, and praying it doesn’t show on his face. He can feel his breeches tight over the erection; shifts his hips and his cock gives away just how much of a pretence nonchalance is right now. He’s swollen and desperate and shifts his legs a little wider.

Whatever Alexander sees, he rasps out a moan and falls to his knees, his hand down between his legs and jerks himself once; twice, mouth open, face flush, eyes wide. Thomas can feel his balls tighten as his cock swells impossibly more. Someone with that much fire in his eyes doesn’t just get down on his knees for anyone.

Thomas’s hands fly to his crotch, desperate to get his breeches down around his knees and – to stinking hell with these buttons – Alexander’s mouth around his cock. But Alexander bats his hands away, then clasps the wrists in one hand and slams them against the cushions, out of his way. Thomas lets out a soft shout at the feeling of his wrist bones grinding together. The other hand yanks down garments, and even if Thomas is sort of twisted to the side where his arms are pinned it really doesn’t matter because Alexander’s other hand is around his cock, squeezing him, stroking roughly up and down and his heart may have just stopped because how long has it been and never – never, never, never with a man like this.

Breathing through his teeth because it’s embarrassing to make noise while getting what is technically no more than he does for himself, Thomas cracks his eyes open just in time to see the boy dip his head down in one swift movement to swallow him whole. His back arches and he stifles a gasping yell, hisses it out through gritted teeth. At some point he’s yanked his wrists out of Alexander’s hold, but all he can do with his arms is grip the cushions until silk tears under his fingernails.

Alexander sucks, hard, and Thomas falls back against the torn pillows, sweating and panting, flushed red in defiance of the cold. He bucks his hips furiously, fucking Alexander’s mouth, sliding in and out of the heat and wet, Alexander’s just-sharp-enough scrape of teeth in revenge if Thomas presses too deep. Hands cup his balls, tug almost viciously as if Alexander wants to remind him that he was still the one technically on top, even if he does have Thomas’s entire length shoved down his throat.

That thought brings Thomas so close to the edge that he has to pause and groan and hold back, and Alexander, who Thomas guesses just might have a competitive streak, takes the moment to throw himself on top of Thomas, flattening the taller man on the bench-like seat of the carriage. It’s a move a street kid would use in a scuffle, one Thomas could overcome quickly, and sure he makes some faint pretence at resistance, but the boy’s mouth is on his neck, hands ripping open his shirt and traveling downwards, nipping and licking and the violet eyes are burning too hot for Thomas to be anything but hypnotized. Maybe it’s just the springs of the carriage but it feels like Alexander is rocking like the sea, lips sliding along his cock in a slow, rhythmic motion with the force of an ocean behind it.

Even through the clothes Alexander’s thin body is searing, his mouth and tongue sucking a steady, hot pulse. There’s no place to roll them, to regain the power, unless Thomas is willing to risk cracking Alexander’s head on the floor. He wonders, fleetingly, if Alexander has thought of this as well.

Alexander does not let him wonder long. His head bobs between Thomas’s thighs just a little faster, flaxen hair tickling his stomach. Hand on Thomas’s hips, holding him down, forcing the boy’s relentless rhythm, faster and faster but always on Alexander’s time.

Thomas is breathing raggedly, repeating half-forgotten prayers under his breath, straining towards Alexander with all he’s worth because, oh God, he’s almost there, and then he’s breathing only the boy’s name with all religion forgotten.

It goes, “AlexanderAlexanderAlexander.”

And he’s coming, hot and fast, hands in blonde hair and pulling the boy’s head roughly down, feeling the throat swallow around his cock, his voice going incoherent and raw. Alexander is swallowing it greedily, pale face flushed, eyes violet embers and fixed on Thomas’s shadowed face. He licks along the base of Thomas’s pulsing cock until Thomas is finished and flops against the pillows. Alexander leans up and captures a last, residual moan with his lips, kissing Thomas hard and swallowing the noise; owning it. Thomas can taste himself.

Alexander sits back to catch his breath, his own cock still stiff inside his breeches. Thomas, tucking himself away with fingers that shake, is thinking of the best way to get his own mouth around Alexander.

Just as Thomas gets the first button done, there is a step on the runnerboard of the carriage, and the muffled sound of someone shifting a package to one side to knock deferentially. All the blood drains from Alexander’s face. The problem is, Jupiter has been Thomas’s slave for years, and they did away long ago with making him wait for Thomas’s word to enter after he’s knocked.

“Your gloves, Master,” Jupiter announces, hand on door.

“Hoerenjong!” Alexander hisses under his breath, which sounds very Dutch and a very upset, but Thomas doesn’t have time to be curious now. They both scramble to the opposite door, knocking shoulders and elbows and somehow Thomas gets the latch open, leaving Alexander to tumble ungracefully onto the frozen street. He’s on his feet again shockingly fast, with the speed of one used to being pushed down, and is out of sight around the corner of a house before Thomas can blink.

“God in Heaven, it’s cold out there,” Jupiter says, swinging open the door and settling the package next to Jefferson’s frozen form with a bow. “Hope these will warm you up, Master.”

Thomas mumbles something. Jupiter bows again, maybe a little concerned, but the Master Jefferson does often get lost in his own head. He shuts the door and climbs up to the driver’s seat, crooning to the horses.

Covering his face with one hand, Thomas rubs his eyes and reaches to shut the other door. In the snow outside, there is only a vague scuffle to show that the boy had been there at all. The carriage starts with a jolt and Thomas stares at it, the mark in the snow and frozen mud, until they turn a corner.

He almost tosses the gloves out the window, but at the last minute tries to be mature.

**Author's Note:**

> Hamilton’s just arrived in the American colonies, specifically New York (he arrived in about June 1773, while this is October/Novemberish.) Assume he’s visiting New York city, since he was living in Elizabethtown about this time.
> 
> Jefferson was in fact known to be a bit of a partier as a teenager. And later, really. The plantation boys stealing Father's rum was totally a thing. Hamilton is freaked out by snow cause he was born and raised in the Caribbean, in the British Virgin Islands. He was a bastard and was raised by his occasionally-imprisoned mum and ran with the tougher street kids for a while before he went 'oh fuck this', found God, got himself a mentor, and got a scholarship raised by his neighborhood to send him to New York for further study.


End file.
